


What Lies within Us

by pr0nz69



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Baking, Captivity, Comfort Food, Food, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Kerberos Mission, Prisoners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:14:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21894220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr0nz69/pseuds/pr0nz69
Summary: “It's the same old goop,” Shiro says with the faintest trace of humor as he watches Matt play indolently with it.“I know.”Shiro pauses. “Eat up,” he says at last. “You need to maintain your strength if we're going to make it out of this.”—Enduring brutal captivity under a warlike people isn't something Matt ever expected or wanted out of a career in space exploration, but maybe there's something even he can do here to lift morale.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	What Lies within Us

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my piece for the Voltron cookbook zine "Quizsnacks." My assigned character was Matt, and my recipe was delicious apple Pop-Tarts! <3 Of course, as with everything, I had to inject some angst into it, so have a Galra captivity fic!

The guards bring the prisoners to the canteen only twice a quintant. That's a rough approximation of a day, slightly longer—at least according to the neurotic measuring of the time Matt's taken up since arriving here. There isn't much else to do to distract himself from the despair—or the hunger. Even from the Kerberos mission, he isn't used to such sparse rations, and the “food” here is hardly that.

Still, mess is the one thing he has to—well, not exactly “look forward to,” but he doesn't have to dread it, either. It's the only time that the prisoners are free to socialize and that he can see Shiro, the last tether he has to home. Shiro might just be his last tether to his sanity, too, if he's being honest.

He counts down the ticks to mealtime, whispering them to himself so he has something to listen to other than the cold mechanical whirr in the air that is his constant companion. He always starts his countdown on the last varga, when the sentries make their eleventh round between meals. It isn't one hundred percent accurate, accounting for human error, but he more or less lands in the right ballpark every time.

When the guards stop by his cell to take him to the canteen (he's only off by three and a quarter doboshes), they order him to get up and present his hands before they open his door. He stands obediently like he always does, hands cuffed in front of him like they always are, and he's taken by the shoulders and steered out into the corridor. He doesn't know why they're so wary. The Galra are physically stronger than humans, built and bred like warriors, and their tech makes Earth's look like mere playthings.

He keeps his head down and stares at his cuffs as they walk. In another life, he would've been fascinated by the unknown alloy of the bands locked around his wrists. Now, though, the method of his own imprisonment holds little interest to him—though that doesn't mean he hasn't looked into it, for an entirely different purpose.

When they arrive at the canteen, the guards deactivate the cuffs' locking mechanism and remove them.

“Go,” one growls, shoving him in the back, sending him stumbling into the room. The doors slide shut behind him.

He finds Shiro at a table speaking with a canine-looking alien—Olia, if he remembers correctly. He knows she was a rebel fighter who was captured some time ago. Her abrasive attitude rubs him the wrong way enough that he doesn't care to learn more. He doesn't say anything as he picks a tray from the assembly line and sits down beside them. Shiro gives him a small, strained smile. That's all even he can manage in here.

“Good to see you,” he says. He's taken to saying that rather than “How are you?” or “Nice day, isn't it?” because neither question has a good answer anymore.

“Yeah,” Matt says, prodding at his food goo with his spork; no matter how much of it he eats and how hungry he gets, it's never appealing.

“I'll see you later,” Olia says to Shiro, taking her empty tray and slinking off. Shiro turns his attention to Matt.

“It's the same old goop,” he says with the faintest trace of humor as he watches him play indolently with it.

“I know.”

Shiro pauses. “Eat up,” he says at last. “You need to maintain your strength if we're going to make it out of this.”

Matt hates when he says things like that, those vague, directionless platitudes that do nothing but remind him of how hopeless their situation is. He'd rather discuss actual escape plans, but Shiro always seems reluctant.

On that note, he raises his head, looking around them to ensure no drones or sentries are within recording range. Then he leans in and mutters, “I figured out how to get the cuffs off.”

Shiro can't entirely quash the impressed look that flicks across his face before it darkens. “Matt,” he says, the warning clear in that one word, “think about what you're doing. What you're risking. Even if you managed to—to do _that_ ”—his own eyes dart to the nearest sentry—“you still wouldn't be able to escape your cell, escape the ship, navigate your way back to Earth—”

Matt grits his teeth, frustrated despite knowing it's true. “I know that,” he says, a little snappishly. “But what am I supposed to do? Just give up hope of ever going home again? Of seeing Dad and Mom and Katie again?”

“That's not what I'm saying. Don't give up hope. Never give up hope. But don't do anything reckless, either.”

Matt stabs into his food goo. “I just want to go home!” he says, louder than he means to.

“You think you're the only one?”

Matt whips around, and his fear dissolves into anger. Olia is standing by their table, arms crossed, eyes narrowed into a glare.

“This has nothing to do with _you_ ,” he growls. “We have nothing to do with _your_ war.”

Her fur bristles. “ _My_ war? Consider yourself lucky that your primitive planet has not known the horrors of Galra oppression these last ten thousand deca-phoebs!”

“ _My_ planet has nothing to do with this! Shiro and I are _not_ rebel fighters! We're just scientists who wanted to study some damn ice on a puny moon in an insignificant solar system! We don't _deserve_ being treated like—”

“Enough!” Shiro's voice is sharp, ringing throughout the canteen. “Matt, I know you're under a great deal of stress, but this senseless bickering isn't getting us anywhere. Olia, I understand that you've sacrificed far more to this war than any person should have to, but making enemies of other prisoners is _exactly_ what the Galra would have us do.”

Matt closes his mouth and lowers his head, suddenly ashamed. From the corner of his eye, he sees Olia do the same. Other prisoners watch, dead-eyed and listless. _Of course_ nobody else wants to be here. All of them were taken from their homes, their families. _None_ of them deserve this.

Shiro puts a hand on his shoulder and nods to the others. Matt wishes he could be like Shiro, calm and collected, an inspiration to everyone. But he's never had that kind of charisma, that strength of will.

It hurts to admit that he can't do anything for anyone.

-

He doesn't entirely know why he did it, but shortly after arriving here, Matt captured a drone.

Maybe it was the opportunity. Maybe it was pent-up aggression from his lack of agency here. Whatever the reason, when the drone passed just a little too close to his cell's window, he couldn't resist slipping his bound hands through the bars and smashing the thing up against the door. Then, using a wire pulled from the frame of his bunk, he'd unscrewed the backplate and gutted it right there, whittling it down piece by piece until it was nothing but a pile of scrap on the floor of his cell.

Sitting cross-legged on his bunk now, he works the wire into the drone's power core. His wrists are bruised but bare, at least, a testament to his prior success. The lock on the door is more advanced, though, and working through the Galran language is more trial and error than anything.

He almost doesn't believe it when he hears the lock power down. He thinks, at first, that he's just imagining it, or that he's misinterpreted some other sound as something he wants to hear. He checks anyway.

The door flutters open.

He doesn't stop to think. Gathering up his makeshift tools, he steps outside his cell, free, in a manner of speaking, for the first time in a long while. He quietly shuts the door. His blood's pounding in his ears as he creeps down the corridor, ducking his head to avoid the line of sight from the other cells' windows. There shouldn't be any guards here at this time, just drones and sentries. He can dodge those well enough.

He doesn't know where he's going or even where he expects to end up. Everything looks the same; the Galra have an uncanny penchant for dark colors and low lighting. Eventually, he comes across a fork in his path, diverting it left or right. A sign is posted, but Matt can't read the Galran. On a whim, he goes left.

The room at the end takes him by surprise, not because it's anything entirely unexpected but rather because of how _familiar_ it looks. Counters line the walls. Appliances sit on and between them. A faucet-like tube drips water into a wide basin.

He's in a kitchen.

In wonder, he slides the door shut behind him. This must be where the guards have their meals. There are sacks and canisters and crates of foodstuff the likes of which Matt's never seen, but they look infinitely better than the food goo. Investigating the appliances, he finds the Galran equivalents of an oven, a stove, a refrigerator. A sack of fruits sits open on one of the counters. He pulls back the neck and reaches inside.

The fruit he grabs is roughly the size and shape of an apple. His stomach growls at the sight. Cautiously, he takes a bite—and recoils; it's so bitter he almost gags. He sets it aside and picks up something that looks like a kiwi swallowed a banana instead. It's sweet and just a little bit tart. He takes another bite. _This_ tastes like an apple. A childlike giddiness rises in him. He'll sneak some of these back to his cell, share them with Shiro—

No—he'll do one better. Something for all of them, something to boost morale. His apple tarts—he'll make his patented apple tarts, the ones that Mom and Dad and Katie love. It's something small, something almost insignificant, but—

But it's something he can do.

He sets about gathering ingredients. The sugar and cinnamon are easy enough to substitute—the sweetest powder for the former and something spicier, more aromatic for the latter. The flour is harder, an educated guess at best based on texture, consistency, and taste. Then comes the butter. There isn't anything quite like it in shape or flavor, but on sampling some of the canned pastes, he finds one that almost tastes like almond butter—a good enough substitute as any, he supposes. He wonders what to do for icing, eventually deciding to just sprinkle some of the sugar-powder over the the tarts as they cool. He can't risk spending too much time here.

Once the ingredients and utensils are assembled, Matt rolls up his sleeves. “Alright,” he whispers. “Time to get to work.”

-

If the Galra realize they're one sack and several ingredients short from their kitchen supply, the guards don't mention it to Matt when they next bring him to mess. He's lucky, too, that the prisoner uniforms are as shapeless and ill-fitting as they are, lest his jailers notice the bag full of tarts tied around his waist under his shirt as they walk him, slightly hunched, to the canteen.

Shiro notices something's up right away as Matt approaches the usual spot. Is he glowing? He might be smiling a little. Shiro must think he's lost it.

Olia's there, too, and the bitterness melts off her face when she sees him. “Look, I wanted to say I'm sorry.” The words tumble out, breathless but sincere.

“No need,” Matt says, surprised by the cheer in his own voice. “ _I'm_ sorry. Shiro's right—we shouldn't fight each other. So I wanted to make it up to you—and everybody.”

“Matt—” Shiro starts, but he cuts himself off when Matt slips the sack of tarts from under his shirt. “Where did you—?”

“It's better not to ask questions at this point. It won't change what's already been done.”

Shiro looks unsettled at that until Matt draws open the neck of the bag and pulls out a pastry. “Who wants a piece of us Earthlings?” he demands, lifting the tart high into the air as myriad heads turn toward him warily. He winks.

“ _How_ did you—?” Olia breathes but stops with an alarmed look at the nearest sentry. Some of the other prisoners are starting to approach curiously. Matt hands her the tart.

“Try it,” he whispers.

She does. Her eyes widen. “Delicious!” she gasps, drawing more attention to them.

“Anyone else want a piece of this?” Matt calls in a louder voice, pulling open the sack to show them the dozens of tarts within.

Shiro puts his hand on his shoulder. “Matt, I don't know how you did it—” He stops himself. “No, scratch that. I know _exactly_ how you did it. And I know _why_ , and...”

Matt waits for his scolding.

“Thank you,” Shiro says instead.

“ _Shiro_?”

“But don't ever put yourself in such danger again. Think about how your family would feel if you weren't around to make these anymore.” He bites into a tart. “They're very good.”

“Yeah,” Matt says, smiling. “I know. Now”—he looks from Shiro to Olia to the crowd of prisoners now gathered around them—“help me hand these out already!”


End file.
